What we deserve
by JackValentine
Summary: "I deserve to be loved". That cry that tore him from the inside and scratched its way out and exploded into the air that one night, it was now stuck inside Crowley's head forever, pulsing and aching… Does he long for something that he never had or did he just lose it? Bobby/Crowley
**TITLE:** What we deserve

 **AUTHOR:** JackValentine

 **BETA:** deluge

 **PAIRING:** Bobby Singer/Crowley

 **RATING:** R

 **GENRE:** Angst, romance

 **SIZE:** Mini

 **WARNINGS:** None

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** "I deserve to be loved". That cry that tore him from the inside and scratched its way out and exploded into the air that one night, it was now stuck inside Crowley's head forever, pulsing and aching… Does he long for something that he never had or did he just lose it?

 **DISCLAIMER:** I don't own anything and seek nothing.

Crowley stepped into the empty rooms of the weary, dusty house. No furniture, brown carton boxes here and there. The hollow house- home? That Winchesters never got around to sell or rent. In the boxes there's everything they didn't find useful, mostly clothes. They don't smell of Bobby anymore, now they're just a worthless pile of shabby fabric.

Crowley had spent so much time here. At some point, he just kept on coming and stopped leaving. Bobby didn't seem to oppose that, so they both just went with it. And Crowley stayed for hours. He stayed for days. For weeks even.

The King of Hell made his way into the kitchen and leaned on the counter. He didn't know what it was, still. Well, they did fuck. They fucked a lot, actually. In the bedroom, in the living room, on this particular counter in the kitchen. But that fact wasn't really the answer to the question given.

Singer knew that demons can't be trusted. Especially a demon like Crowley, that demon in particular he couldn't afford to trust. So, Crowley felt, Bobby had always slept with one eye open. Never turned his back. Never let himself loose. Singer was always ready to defend himself whenever he would've had to face an attack. An attack that, needless to say, was to never happen. But he couldn't ever catch the hunter off guard. Except for those moments when he, balls deep in Crowley, came inside him, trembling and grasping on Crowley's body. His eyes closed, his mouth tight.

Crowley walked up the stares and into the bedroom. There was a dusty gray rectangle on the wooden floor where the bed used to be. They did share it, never touching, or, Hell forbid, "cuddling", though. Bobby was never affectionate outside of sexual context. Except for that one time when he poured Crowley a drink (along with his own) and brought it to the unsuspecting demon chilling in the living room. In reply to Crowley's surprised smirk and ironically raised eyebrows, he just brawled out: "Drink it up or just leave it if you don't wanna, and don't test me!" Bobby had snapped and yelled at Crowley the night before. That wasn't the first time, nor was it the last. But that was the one thing that could be an apology, probably.

The demon walked back down the stairs, into the living room and stood on one particular spot. That was the spot where the hunter's favorite armchair used to be. Oh, the things that this armchair had seen!

In the most far-flung corners of the Earth, Crowley would often find himself aching for Bobby. So he would appear on his doorstep in a milisecond, only to beg and plead. The demon was always the one to initiate and he never found shame in it, because he knew, he felt that Singer wanted it just as much. Crowley had always kissed first, too. Up on the very favorite armchair of the hunter, Bobby on his knees on the floor in front of him, their arms and legs intertwined, Bobby's hand tucked under Crowley's buttocks, Crowley's knee over Bobby's elbow, Bobby's cock pounding Crowley's sweet spot, making him moan, and whine and always plead for more, and more, and more. Crowley would wrap his arm around his partner's neck, his palm on the back of Singer's head, and smash their mouthes together in the hot mess that their sex always was. Except for that one time when, in the middle of the night, the sleepless Crowley felt Bobby's arm around him from the back, the heat of his body entering the demon's personal space, Singer's warm, drowsy breath upon his neck a second before Bobby's lips connect with Crowley's skin, his beard pricky upon it... Crowley mocked the hunter for that. Laughed at him. And anything of that nature had never happened again.

It was always, always rough, the way that they fucked. There was not a caress, not a sign of weakness. But they'd never hurt each other, neither did they ever attempt to. That was definitely a weird thing to do (or, say, not do) for a demon.

Crowley slowly made his way out and closed the door from outside. The door that he'd walk when he had to go wherever. Yes, he had always walked the door, he'd never just vanish.

Maybe, it made Bobby feel like Crowley was a bit more human, which was, of course, not the case.

"I deserve to be loved". That cry that tore him from the inside and scratched its way out and exploded into the air that one night, it was now stuck inside Crowley's head forever, pulsing and aching. And it was Bobby's face that flashed before his eyes. Bobby's hands, bobby's arms, Bobby's plaid flannels and ancient cap, it was Bobby's calm sleeping breath that he felt, Bobby's voice that he heard. At that moment, human blood burning in his veins, his body in chains, it was Bobby's stocky, pudgy silhouette that, he realized, was carved into his insides in a morbid ligature of bleeding scars.

Bobby's gone. It doesn't really matter what it was, right? "Right..." - said Crowley out loud, before vanishing into thin air.


End file.
